


Maybe it's Irony

by Zekiamuto



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekiamuto/pseuds/Zekiamuto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you’re not sure what you’re looking for. You don’t know where it is and how you’ll find it. You just know that you’ve been looking for it for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe it's Irony

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re not sure what you’re looking for. You don’t know where it is and how you’ll find it. You just know that you’ve been looking for it for a while.

Looking for something to fill the empty yearning that seems to have always been inside you.

Sometimes you have dreams; flashes of a land made of heat, a land made of clockwork.  
Flashes of knitting needles, of pumpkins, of grey skin and candy corn.

But most of all, you have dreams of blue text, of bad pranks, of wind, and of wanting.

Of waiting.

You’re not sure why.

You’re not sure what you’re waiting for in these dreams. You have a feeling that you’d know, if only you could recall all the dreams you’ve had.

Each time you wake up, shivering and drenched in cold sweat, you try to remember, try to solidify the images into your mind and wrap them in tangible memories.

Each time the brightly colored images evade you, and you are left with a yearning even greater than before.

Sometimes, your life feels frozen, and you feel like time stops and changes just for you.

It doesn’t.

Time passes for you just as it does for everyone else.

Time passes and you hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll find what you’re looking for.

You don’t.

Time passes and you hope that maybe, just maybe, you’ll forget about what you’re looking for.

You don’t.

-

When you are thirteen, you take whatever savings you have, and, of all things, attempt to buy a pair of sunglasses and a stuffed bunny. Ben Stiller sunglasses and the stuffed bunny from Con Air, to be exact. Why? You have no idea. Rather than buy yourself a new set of turntables or a camera, or even some more dead specimens, you choose to bid on some useless memorabilia. Though you’ve never thought much of either the movie or the person, you can’t help but gravitate towards these two objects.

It’s like you think they’re already yours.

And though the biddings for both items go to ridiculous heights, there is one person who seems to want the glasses and bunny just as much as you do. You aren’t shown their full username on the bidding website you’re on, just the two abbreviated letters they choose to show. GT. Inwardly, you curse at this mysterious GT for obstructing your path to owning these two pointless collectibles, though you know you should really be thanking him for preventing the two worst purchases in your life.

You continue bidding, anyways.

In the end, you decide you have to cut your losses on the glasses, and GT wins by a hair (You comfort yourself by buying a pair of glasses similar, if not exactly the same as the memorabilia. For some reason unknown to you, the shades you had been wearing for years, courtesy of your brother, did not seem to suit you anymore). You can’t quite give up on the bunny, though, and you soldier on, eventually winning that bidding.

However, when it arrives, you put it high up on a shelf, leaving it there.

It’s not yours, not really.

It’s waiting, just like you.

When you are fifteen, you meet Rose Lalonde through the forum of an online knitting guild. Though you would never admit it to anyone, you’d taken to lurking around websites and the like of things that reminded you of the persistent yearning inside of you. You can’t quite remember just how many accounts you have in total, spanned across several knitting and gardening sites.

Desperation calls.

You’re not quite sure what to make of her, at first. She seems to see right through your stolid facades and whimsical metaphors.

She seems to curb the wanting inside of you.

She doesn’t fill it or erase it, not by a long shot, but she smoothes the ragged edges of the gaping hole inside your soul. Her bright purple text comforts you with its strange familiarity. And then, when you accidentally let it slip to her about your dreams, about your yearning, you find that she has them, as well.

There were differences, of course. Her dreams are of a land made of light, a land made of rain. Of records, of pumpkins, and of blue skies.

Most of all, though, her dreams are of chainsaws, of emerald blood, of candy corn horns and glowing skin.

But the yearning, the wanting, the waiting stayed constant.

Never ending.

All consuming.

When you are eighteen, you move to Washington for college, hell if you know why. Something about the place feels right. You know it isn’t just you, either. On the first day you walk onto campus you spot a slender, fair-haired girl with striking purple eyes. You don’t even consciously register it in your mind as you walk over to her and say, “Rose.”

It’s not nearly as much of a question as it is a statement.

Something about the place, though, feels like you’re getting closer to what you’re looking for.

Days pass in a monotonous cycle, full of classes, food, and sleep, and you decide to explore the campus one day in a momentary burst of spontaneity.

You stumble across a girl with black hair and bright green eyes, and, just as you had when you saw Rose’s bright purple text, you are struck by the overwhelming feel of familiarity.

You see her eyes widen, see the recognition wash over her face as you meet her gaze, and you know, you know that she’s searching, just as Rose does, just as you do.

You know that she’s waiting, too.

You approach her, talk to her, get to know her, and you soon find she knows the dreams, hers filled with a land of frost, a land of frogs. With records, with knitting needles, with blue, with grey skin and candy corn. Filled with knowledge, with space, with the world.

You wonder why she doesn’t seem to have a focus, a main factor that she seems to center upon the most, one that drives her more than all others.

But you know that, in the end, all of your dreams are one and the same, for the wanting, the yearning, the waiting are forever unchanging.

Forging the unbreakable bonds of friendship was inevitable, and just like Rose, Jade Harley soothes the aching wounds of your soul, making it just the bit more bearable to live without something, something nearer and dearer to you than you care to admit.

And though you three never acknowledge it, it is plain that the camaraderie you all share is missing a vital piece.

You know it’s a selfish thought, but can’t help but think that you want, no, you need that missing piece the most.

-

You are twenty-one, and you are flat broke. You get a job DJing for a club, and though you haven’t touched a turntable in years, the sick beats come back to you as though it were yesterday. You feel the music in your veins, the bass thudding in your bones, and you can’t help but move to the rhythm of the music, immersing yourself and closing your eyes.

Your eyes flicker open, and for a moment, you are blinded by the roving club lights. For a moment, everything is bright, too bright, except for a single face out in the crowd, a face with bright blue eyes and dark hair. You blink, furiously trying to become accustomed to the light, and your eyes dart frantically, sweeping over the crowd. A sort of desperation overtakes you, and you don’t notice as your hands stop their fluid movements, making a scratching noise where none should’ve been.

You know those blue eyes, that dark hair. For a moment, everything clicks in your mind, and you know: you’ve seen them every night of your life.

You blink again and what little understanding you had is once again out of your grasp. You glance around once more, but those blue eyes, those shining slivers of sky are gone, and you’re not quite sure if you imagined them or not.

You’re not sure if you were desperate because you saw something there, or if you saw something because you were desperate.

You’re not so much physically exhausted as mentally exhausted when you leave the club at 2 am. You notice some kind of disturbance over on the next block─ police cars, fire trucks, ambulance, the whole nine yards─ but hell if you’re going to check it out now. You’re far too tired and confused about whatever you may or may not have seen tonight at the club.

You’re more than willing to allow the mind-numbing haze of sleep wash over you tonight, dreams or no dreams.

You wake up the next morning, disoriented and groggy. You can’t help but feel that your dreams last night were far more vivid than usual, though, as is the norm, you can’t remember─ no, that’s wrong. You can taste a name on your lips, a name that you’ve never heard before. _John Egbert_.

You wonder who he is, though you already know who he is to you.

You walk past a newspaper stand as you walk to class and, though you could hardly care less about current events right now, some godforsaken voice inside you compels you to pick up a newspaper. You give the paper a quick run through and are about to toss it away when something catches your eye. You’re not sure what, really, and it irks you to have to go back and search page by page to find out what it was.

Your eyes widen ever so slightly when you find the picture of a young man, and you are hit by a wave of recognition and nostalgia. Though the newspaper is in black and white, you know that his hair is dark and lustrous, his eyes a brilliant blue. The ghost of a name hovers on your lips and you can’t help but hiss out, " _John Egbert_."

You flip back to the front of the article quickly, almost desperately, scanning it through. You give a sharp intake of breath, as you read the headline you had previously ignored “YOUNG MAN RUN OVER BY DRUNK DRIVER”.  
  
 _A drunk driver hit and severely injured a young man heading home on a Seattle sidewalk last night, police said._  
 _The driver, still unknown, was allegedly drunk, swerving and speeding when he made a hard right turn and lost control of his black sedan, hitting a college-age boy crossing the street._  
 _The victim, who was found lying in the middle of the street, was quickly taken to the Harborview Medical Center. The crash was reported about 1:56 a.m., according to the police._  
 _The formal name of the young man has not yet been released. He is currently being held in the hospital in critical condition._

You drop whatever you’re holding, ignoring the disdainful looks passersby give you. Your mind settles into a dim fog, and you’re not quite sure what you’re doing as you race back to your apartment, grabbing the bunny off its shelf and heading back out again. The hospital isn’t too far away from where you are, and you hardly even notice the distance as you flat out sprint down the sidewalk, running into innocent civilians.

It’s no longer a hunt─ it’s become a race against time.

You rush into the hospital and ask─ beg─ the receptionist to see John Egbert. You’re not sure what she makes of you, out of breath and holding a beat-up stuffed bunny, but though she tells you that it’s family-only, she calls up anyways. After a minute, a older man comes out, and you can tell he recognizes you by the widening of his eyes. He tells the receptionist that it’s fine, and you follow him back in.

You enter room 413 after him, and you can’t help but give a small gasp at the condition John is in. The feeling of death is nearly overwhelming in the room, and if it weren’t for the constant beeping of the heart monitor, you’d almost think he was. You shuffle closer to him, taking a seat next to his bed. You set the bunny down on the table besides the hospital bed, finally with its proper owner.

You put your face in your hands, trying to ignore the prickling of tears in the corner of your eyes. You feel a weak tug on your sleeve, and give a slight start, looking up.

For the first time in your life, you meet those blue eyes, and, for a moment, you can see him alive and fully of vivacity.

You blink away the images in your mind as you feel him tug more insistently at your sleeve. He gestures to the table and, assuming what he wants, you reach over and hand him the bunny. John takes it and smiles at you for a moment, but tugs at your sleeve and gestures towards the table once more. You look towards it again, but see only cards and flowers from well-wishers. You can tell your bewilderment shows on your face-- you can practically fell his eyes roll as he gestures again to the table. Scrutinizing it once again, you make out thin crevices in the table, telltale signs of a drawer.

You open the compartment and give a sharp intake of breath. A pair of sunglasses-- _the_ pair of sunglasses you had spent day after day bidding on when you were thirteen-- sits in there, and you hastily scoop them out. Facing back at John, he gestures for you to put them on. 

You try to ignore the prickle in the corner of your eye as you put the shades on your face.

An expression of immense relief spreads over John's face and he smiles, closing his eyes. Your right hand holds his as you settle back down.

You're not sure how long you wait there. The passage of time is marked only by the continuous beeping of the heart monitor changing to an unbroken tone and the slackening of the grip on your hand.

Maybe it's irony that the only time you've ever felt the hole in your soul close is when another one is ripped wide open in your heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas.


End file.
